


a love passed from generation to generation

by Megadeth



Series: extrasensory. [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman and Robin (Comics)
Genre: Batfamily Bonding, Character Study, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff, Gen, because families who bake together stay together, bonding in the form of baking together, of a sort?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-12
Updated: 2019-09-12
Packaged: 2020-10-14 21:48:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20607860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megadeth/pseuds/Megadeth
Summary: people are sums of their parts. so understanding comes in pieces.and sometimes, a sense of belonging comes in chocolate chips.





	a love passed from generation to generation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [saddiebey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saddiebey/gifts).

father is a confusing man.

there were things he’d been taught to expect of the man - of batman. practical things, sensible things, like speed and stealth, power and influence. these were things damian understood. these were things that slotted comfortably into his understanding of the world, of the expectations his family had for him. of the path laid out so neatly before him.

of who father is.

or, perhaps, of who father should be.

_ baking _… was not one of those things.

before him stands that very man, flour dusted across the granite counters of the manor’s kitchen, the sleeves of his black henley pushed up to his elbows, fingers sticky with what looks like… dough.

damian wrinkles his nose in distaste.

to damian’s understanding, by way of pennyworth, father has been home all day. he had, apparently, had a meeting with wayne enterprise investors or some such that he’d cancelled.

in favour of mucking about in the kitchen like a servant.

father dusts more flour across the counter and sets to rolling out the dough in front of him again, either truly or deliberately unaware of damian’s lingering presence in the doorway. so, damian seizes this opportunity to merely… observe. it’s a learning experience, he tells himself, because this is not a skillset he’s familiar with. and there's a use for everything.

there has to be.

there is quiet music coming from the AI contraption timothy set up days ago on one of the far counters, something… guitar-heavy. damian can’t place it and the thought makes him frown. it’s both unfamiliar to him and to his image of father, as a person. 

maybe he’ll ask jon about the former, later. tactfully.

there’s only so much “good-natured” teasing damian will accept from the diminutive alien.

his attention shifts to the big, metallic mixing bowls neatly arranged on the counter -- because father does not know how to do anything by halves, he’s learned. he can’t see inside them from where he’s standing and he’s arrested by the sudden, _ childlike _desire to rush over and peer over the counter to get a better look.

\-- _ maybe ask father if he can help _\--

damian clamps down on that urge as quickly as he can, stifling it under _ severity _ and _ restraint _ and _ a stoic little soldier _.

that behaviour would be unbecoming of a wayne, of an al-ghul, of a _ robin _. so he stands, stiff-backed, hands folded behind his back in the most austere way he can, and clears his throat.

father looks up from his rolling pin, brows pitched up in mild surprise, “damian? you’re home from school already?”

damian nods, taking two steps into the kitchen proper - he’s still painfully curious about the mixing bowls, _ but _-

“yes, father.” 

“how was your day?”

the boy makes a displeased noise, “uneventful. what madness are you engaged in? pennyworth said you said home from the office today, do not tell me it was to play with raw ingredients.”

a wry smile curls the corner of father’s mouth, and damian stands a little straighter, unsure of what to expect. “i’m baking, damian. it’s hardly madness.”

there’s no agitation or disapproval in father’s posture - he’s relaxed, as much as he can be, shoulders loose but not sloppy. the familiar rigidity in his jaw, the rigidity damian has memorized as a robin, isn’t there either, replaced by something much quieter.

damian chances another few steps into the room, up until he’s alongside father.

“to what end,” he asks, tone flat - an affectation richard has frequently said he picked up from the man before him.

damian enjoys comparisons such as those.

said man shrugs, just a minute twitch in his shoulders. father has never been prone to big, expressive gestures, like richard is. all of his movements are precise, efficient in their goal to make their point without wasting energy.

“it helps me think.”

that - 

that was not the answer damian had been expecting.

he opens his mouth to ask - _ demand _\- an explanation, but father cuts him off at the pass, “have you never baked anything before, damian?”

_ of course not _.

cold, bitter resentment works its way through damian’s veins, abrupt and swift, and his fingers curl into his palm, blunt nails digging into the skin there. he doesn’t - surely father does not mean that as an insult - there’s no way he could -

father is looking at him, the corner of his mouth ticked down now, and damian breathes in deeply through his nose. 

“i have not.”

he hopes he sounds even-tempered.

the man nods once, decisively, and turns back towards the assortment of baking supplies on the counter. he surveys everything before him, frown still tucked into the corner of his mouth. regret, slow and suffocating, coils around the resentment in damian’s chest, content to squeeze until he cannot breathe. perhaps he hadn’t sounded as even-tempted as he’d hope, perhaps now he’s upset father and will be told to leave the room, perhaps -

it isn’t until father’s gaze lands on him again that damian stops feeling frozen in amber. he braces himself to be told to go and do his homework, or study, or something equally as removed from father’s presence, which is not what he’d wanted when he’d started this line of questioning, but he just couldn’t -

“would you like to learn?”

_ oh. _

“father?” damian blurts, eyes wide, coils in his chest loosening slowly, like molasses.

“chocolate chip cookies, is what i was making. i could show you.”

“i - yes. i would… i would like to learn.”

the frown on father’s face is gone now, and so are the warring tendrils in damian’s chest. he’s grateful, quietly, for whatever peace this inane activity has swaddled father in and the, for the moment, unshakable security of it.

damian shifts towards the counter, and - he had been right before, he will have to stand on his toes to see over the edge of it. it is not ideal but he feels like this opportunity is fleeting and he has been taught - _ ruthlessly _\- to seize every chance given him.

but -

father is frowning down at him, brow notching in the way that it does when he's evaluating a particularly troublesome problem. it takes damian a moment to place why father would be _ looking _at him like that.

and when it clicks, damian feels a sudden sense of dread, sliding like lead down into the pit of his stomach.

this pastime is a way for father to unwind, and now he’s brought another problem, another disruption. he had only wanted to _ help _ , wanted to be _ involved _ in father's life in some small way - to have some part of the breadth of father’s existence that he can weave his way into that didn’t require a _ uniform _ \- but perhaps he'd overstepped, intruded somehow, perhaps he'd -- 

"in the pantry," father starts, and damian jolts. he feels - frazzled, almost, by the non-sequitur. 

father continues, seemingly oblivious to damian’s alarm, "there's a stepping stool. in the pantry." he’s dusting his hands with a dish towel now. he looks down at damian, and - the pensive notch in his brow is gone, smoothed over by something gentler. softer. it's an expression damian can't quite place, and it leaves him on edge. but he nods all the same and scurries off. 

he finds the mentioned stepping stool tucked into a small cubby in a set of shelves. it's old; the paint - navy blue, like the night sky, sprinkled with bright yellow stars - chipping and faded, but it looks sturdy enough. he drags it back into the kitchen. 

father is watching him, that soft look on his face still. damian feels his own face heat up, embarrassed for reasons he doesn't understand.

father gestures for him to come over to the counter so damian does, stepping stool in tow. once he's close enough, his father takes the stool and sets it beside the counter proper, then gestures again, this time for damian to climb up. 

so, again, damian does.

standing on the stool, damian is the exact right height to reach the counter. alarmed - and curious - he peers at his father. that gentle look is still on his face, overlaid with - sadness. melancholy, almost.

damian looks down at the stool, brows pulled together in perplexity, “father, to whom does this belong? why was it in the pantry?”

damian - has more questions. he's brimming with them, actually. but he can’t seem to find the words he needs. the stool looks like something a child would’ve owned and he can’t quite - can’t quite _ see _ father as the type of child who would’ve needed such a frivolous, juvenile thing. it seems the sort of thing one might see in a preschool or something of the sort - brightly colored, like the walls of kindergartens he sees on his way into school in the morning, splashed through w primary colors without care or consideration for the flow or movement of _ true _art.

surely this stool was the belonging of the child of a former servant. surely it wasn’t -

father clears his throat, jarring damian out of his musing. the man’s eyes are focused on the counter, his fingers twisted in the dish towel still in his grasp. he looks - damian doesn’t know.

if richard was here, he’d know. richard is good at reading father’s moods, his almost non-expressions. damian - is not. does not know how to be.

_ \-- he wishes, so badly, that he could. that he knew father as well as richard did. -- _

"it was mine, actually. dad, he… he built it, one year. we - my mother - your grandmother - and i - painted it. it was needed, when i was smaller. when i was about your size. after… after, alfred must’ve put it away." 

damian's face heats again, and he looks down at the little stool, navy and dotted with stars like the sky at night, with fresh eyes.

_ it was mine. _

he tries as hard as he can, to picture father small. small like he is now. small and - and happy, if the cheerful colors of the stool are any indication. a bright child, like the broad strokes of primary color that streak across the walls of kindergartens. 

a bright child surrounded by parents who’d indulged him in bright, happy things, like navy and yellow paint. like tiny stepping stools to ensure he’d always feel included when he was with them, in the kitchen.

damian tries very hard not to linger on that thought, the thought of father being small and happy, of the grandparents he’ll never know, the grandparents he’s slowly coming to believe would’ve been _ pleased _with him, as their grandson.

it’s amazing how one can miss what one never had in the first place.

that melancholy look is back on father's face when damian looks back up, but accompanied now by a small smile. "i… i'm glad we kept it. i'd forgotten how much i'd loved it as a kid. and i’m gladder, still, that you get to use it now." and with that, father looks back at the counter, yet another indecipherable look on his face. and damian feels - he feels -

glad, too, he thinks. it’s an unexpected thought. he feels _ glad _ , even if he’ll never meet grandfather and grandmother, he feels _ glad _ . to be here, regardless. to have this small part of father’s childhood - a part of his life not tied to _ batman _ \- to hold onto. a part that is _ his _now, and his alone.

yes. if this strange, warm feeling spreading across his chest can be named _ gladness _, then damian is glad indeed.

father clears his throat again and points to one of the bowls on the counter, “that one, bring it closer. it has chocolate chips in it. we can fold them into the dough.”

so damian does exactly that.

he folds chocolate chips into cookie dough and learns the benefits of chilling dough before baking it, father’s voice quiet and kind in his ear the entire time, that strange contentment in his chest growing brighter still.

and if he quietly, secretly, revels in the small, special way he’s made space for himself in father’s life, then that, too, is his to hold onto.

**Author's Note:**

> hi! i have not written anything in ages and this probably reflects that very well!  
based wholly and completely on a vanity headcanon i have wherein bruce bakes when he's stressed. or needs to work through a complicated problem. or just wants to feed his sweet tooth.
> 
> also based on the complexities of a relationship between a father and son who have no idea how to bond despite wanting desperately to do so.
> 
> i also hate proper capitalization. because i'm a lazy millennial.
> 
> hope you enjoyed!


End file.
